The Last of the Stanfields(105)

“Why did she go running away to London, and why did she never come back?”

“I have neither the time nor the desire to talk about that. There’s nothing left of those days; it’s all gone. So, why bother? Take my advice, girl. Leave the past behind you. There’s no reason to let it torment you. You were lucky to have such wonderful parents. Hold on to your mother as you remember her. Sally-Anne as I knew her was an entirely different woman.”

“Where is the diary?” I insisted. “Do you still have it? May?”

But it was too late. Once more, May’s eyes had taken on that faraway look. I could tell it was a lost cause as she abruptly flipped off an elderly woman at a nearby table, then turned back to me, laughing.

“Let me tell you why my son became a carpenter. I had a crush on an antiques dealer, and I could tell he felt the same for me. I was alone, he was unhappily married. Two broken people trying to fix things by giving the other what they lacked. As a child, George-Harrison spent quite a lot of time with the man, almost every day after school. Pierre was there for us when no one else was. He was like a godfather to George-Harrison, taught him everything he knew. That suited me just fine, even if I could see a certain irony to the whole thing. You see, there had been a carpenter in my life once before, a good man, perhaps the best I’ve ever known. He came to see me shortly after George-Harrison was born, hoping I’d drop everything and run away with him. I acted like a fool. I still regret it. But it was far too late anyway. Don’t say a thing to George-Harrison. He always thought carpentry was his own choice, and he’d be outraged at thinking his mother, of all people, had any influence over him. After all, he is just a man. Okay. You run along now, dear. I’ve told you more than enough, and if you can’t connect the dots now, then you must be even thicker than you look.”

“Are you the one who wrote those letters to us?”

“Get out of here! I have to take my bath, and you’re not my nurse, last time I checked. Wait just a minute! Are you telling me you’re my new nurse? They can’t just switch nurses without telling me! This place is a dump! Any more of this crap, I’m going to complain, I swear I will.”

This time she was gone for good. Despite my mixed feelings for the woman, I gave May a hug goodbye, perhaps just to enjoy that comforting, familiar perfume one last time.

I stood outside George-Harrison’s pickup and took a deep breath before getting inside. I was at a total loss. Not only did I have to break the news that his long-lost father was dead, but I was betraying May’s trust by telling him. I didn’t know where to start.

“Did you solve the mystery?” he asked.

“What? What do you mean?” I stammered.

“The case of the missing cell phone. Did you work it out? It’s been over ten minutes, I was starting to worry.”

I swallowed. “Drive. We have to talk.”





37

ELEANOR-RIGBY

October 2016, Magog

It was getting dark as we pulled out of the retirement home, with the air outside even colder than the night before. I knew I could have stayed silent. But if I had learned one thing from my quest so far, it was that secrets could be poisonous. Completing the task ahead of me would be no small feat. I knew I had to tread lightly from the start. And telling George-Harrison would only be the beginning. Sooner or later, I’d have to reveal everything to Michel and Maggie as well, and I had no idea how to do that without going against my mother’s wishes. But for the time being, I had to face the problem sitting next to me in the driver’s seat.

When at last I managed to tell George-Harrison that his father had died years before and that May had implied she had something to do with his death, his unfazed, stoic reaction was the last thing I was expecting. He simply kept driving, stone-faced and quiet. I told him how sorry I was for his loss, and how guilty I felt about exposing May’s deep, dark secret. Still nothing. George-Harrison sat biting his lip with incredible reserve.

“I guess I should be sad,” he finally said. “Strange as it sounds, I’m more relieved than anything else. What used to hurt most was thinking that he didn’t care about meeting me, that he was ignoring my existence altogether, like his own son was . . . unimportant. At least now, he has a foolproof alibi. You can’t really blame him for not showing up.”

May hadn’t mentioned exactly when George-Harrison’s father died, but I didn’t see any point in emphasizing that now.

“When she told you she had killed him, did it seem like she was still thinking straight?” he asked.

“That’s not what your mother said, not exactly. She told me it was her fault. It’s not the same thing.”

“It sure sounds like the same thing to me,” he said, the bitterness at last coming through in his voice.

“It’s not! We don’t know a thing about how he died. It could have been a car accident, and she feels it’s her fault because she wasn’t there.”

“It’s pretty na?ve and hopeful, jumping to her defense like that.”

“That’s not it at all. It’s just . . . I could see how much she loved him.”

“What difference does that make? A crime of passion is somehow more forgivable?”

“It doesn’t change anything for you to know you were created by two people who loved each other?”